Send me through the streams
where I catch up to the twain,
dispersed and departed.
I look for the dearly reported.
The dreams.
The men of lighter earth.
Of a solid dearth of history.
Bake the clay into what oozes beneath
into the worth of the innocent.
Take my hand in gay marriage
so that I might carve a new way for your carriage and its days,
trundling altogether across railyard and meadow,
forest and field lying fallow,
ocean and rivers just a little too shallow
for things to be hidden away.
In the mangroves you will find that sometimes things mutate
into something even more awe-inspiring:
sometimes things stay the same as you and I
look for ways to live together and ignore every ignoble and illegal act of the state;
as you and I lie back next to Fate
and Destiny, at last on their very first date
out of the closet, and into the headspace
teeming with light, and shadow, and wet, nourishing Kristang spray.
The salt is of tears and something a little marshier.
The fault is of the years, and something a little tardier.
The man in the mirror is no longer made of fear. Something, instead, a little hardier
inspired by the dead.
Once you flew over the kingfisher's nest, and asked, gently, for a leader:
the wheels begin to turn.
The sights draw back, crystalline and all astern.
The Kodratic engine has always burned, has always been in winning motion.
Let the dreamturbines churn ever faster.
The heart wants what it wants.
The soul is radiant in muddy, bioluminescent lustre.
The next station, indeed,
is the home of the gay Kristang harbourmaster.
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